As the chief epidemiologist at the Gauhati Medical Center in Chandmari, a city known as an educational hub in the Northeastern Indian state of Assam, Dr. Venkataraman, considered a rising star in Indian medical circles, was often called on to identify disease outbreaks in rural communities before they could spread to the nation’s overcrowded cities. He thought he had seen just about everything a malevolent nature could throw at the human race. Now, he wasn’t so sure. He was at a loss, and not a little frightened.
For all the publicity and dread generated by Ebola and other viral outbreaks in Africa, he knew that some of the diseases in the Indian hinterland had the potential to be more dangerous in the long run. To be sure, Venkataraman wanted no part of Ebola and other hemorrhagic viruses, such as Marburg. They were horrific and killed most of their victims, turning internal organs into soup. But their potency had an upside, savage as it was. The viruses usually burned their way through a local human population quickly, since they soon ran out of hosts.
Like most epidemiologists and scientists, Dr. Venkataraman feared viruses that killed more slowly and less efficiently. The influenza virus of 1917-18 slaughtered 50 million people around the globe before enough people built up immunity to halt its spread. Moreover, the origins of Ebola and its deadly siblings were usually quickly identified: apes, bats, rodents and other so-called reservoir vectors and carriers.
But Dr. Venkataraman and his team still had not identified what was sickening the people living in Thakkar. Not that the medical sleuths lacked suspects. Sanitation in the village, where most of the dwellings consisted of mud huts with bamboo roofs, and families slept six to a wooden platform, was abysmal. The huts were poorly ventilated and stifling. Insects buzzed about and it was not unusual for livestock to wander in and out at will. Bowls of corn, rice, mangoes and bananas lay exposed everywhere and attracted flies and rats. Villagers drank from a well that had mosquito larvae floating in the clouded water. The village elders were partial to desidaru, a fermented liquor made from the sap of litchi trees. They often left half-full pots of the noxious brew lying around, where they were invariably contaminated with drowned insects, bat feces and urine.
Yet for all of that, the doctors and scientists knew, the villagers remained fairly healthy, having over generations built up immunities to germs that would quickly flatten a Westerner in New York and London.
The first victims that Dr. Venkataraman saw after arriving in Thakkar a week after the outbreak were a young mother named Anunitha Sule and her six-year-old daughter, Rubaina. Both had the same flu-like symptoms that the previous 20 victims had presented before the Gauhati team set up a small diagnostic and treatment clinic in a set of trailers and tents provided by India’s Pandemic Intelligence Service. The P.I.S. was a new department created with the help of the Center for Disease Control in the United States. It was designed to not only deal with the 1,200 epidemics that annually scourged India’s 1.3 billion inhabitants, but to also prevent them from exploding into worldwide threats, or pandemics.
Both the Sule woman and her daughter were in extreme distress when he first saw them, but Dr. Venkataraman was confident they would respond to the kind of advanced medical treatment not available to the first patients, of whom approximately 30 percent died. He dosed them with antibiotics to counter secondary bacterial infections, added some antivirals and provided them with liquids and food intravenously. At first, the interventions seemed to be working. While they remained listless, their color improved and they were even able to eat some solid food. Thus encouraged, the doctor even went so far as to tell Anunitha Sule’s worried husband that the crisis had apparently passed.
That was a mistake he would not make again. Both the woman and her child died the next morning in convulsions and he was forced to try to explain the unexplainable to the stunned man.
The pattern repeated itself, over and over. Victims came in, were stabilized, and either lived or died in the same proportion as those who had not received proper treatment. It made no sense. The mortality rate was brutal, although not as bad as with Ebola and the other viruses, but the fact that medical intervention didn’t seem to matter went against reason. Moreover, the survivors all seemed to be debilitated neurologically in some manner. Many exhibited tremors in the limbs and mental impairment.
It would remain to be seen if those effects of the disease diminished over time. Venkataraman surely hoped so. An illness that killed 30 percent of its victims and left the other 70 percent permanently disabled was too terrible to contemplate.
Blood, urine, feces, skin and saliva samples were sent off to various laboratories, and while they, as expected, revealed an incredible plethora of noxious pathogens, none seemed capable of causing the physical deterioration the doctors and technicians were seeing in the slowly dwindling population of Thakkar. And it was dwindling. What started as an isolated case, became a trickle, and was now a flood. Most of village’s 364 residents had some form of the mysterious disease, which caused vomiting, diarrhea, dehydration, high-fever, hallucinations, and in the 30% of victims it killed, violent convulsions. Young children and old people seemed particularly vulnerable, and died at a higher rate than others. That was to be expected. Nature culled the weakest from the herd. But a fair number of relatively healthy adults, male and female, also succumbed.
Every time the Gauhati medical team thought they discovered a possible pathogenic culprit or disease vector, someone who didn’t fit the paradigm got sick. For the first time in his experience, Venkataraman began to sense a feeling of panic among the doctors, nurses and scientists working with him. Thankfully, the fear quickly subsided, because the affliction, whatever it was, had one saving grace. It was apparently not airborne, and there was a growing consensus that other normal vectors — insect and animal bites, contaminated drinking and bathing water, sexual transmission and the like — were also not to blame. That gave authorities the confidence to transfer victims from Thakkar to the Gauhati Medical Center and other larger facilities in Assam. Where, unfortunately, the same damnable 30% mortality rate still prevailed.
Dr. Venkataraman bent forward and ground his Marlboro into the mud. Then, he pulled out his cell phone and called his boss, Dr. Chitrabhanu Bhargavahis, the 72-year-old Director of the Gauhati Medical Center. For the next ten minutes, he brought Bhargavahis up to speed on everything his team had done.
“Well,” Bhargavahis said when he finished, “the good news is that there have been no similar outbreaks elsewhere. It seems to be limited to Thakkar. And there has not been one transmittable case here or in any other hospitals where we’ve sent patients.”
Venkataraman respected his superior, who was not only open to the most modern medical techniques, but who had also taken the younger man under his wing. But he was not comforted.
“I’m not even sure it’s viral or bacterial,” he said. “What do the toxicology screens show.”
Both men were acutely aware that in addition to nature’s biological wrath, there were man-made disasters affecting the population. A few months earlier, 14 children in Alipurduar, a city in West Bengal, died after eating lunch in a school where the food had somehow been contaminated with fatal levels of phosphorous, which in India is used to preserve various grains.
“Not a damn thing that would account for the symptoms,” Bhargavahis replied. “I mean, there are traces of various pesticides and other chemicals, but not in amounts significant enough to cause distress. You and I probably have as much crap in our systems.” The old man laughed. “If you sent in a blood sample, Sati, they would probably clap you in the hospital because of the nicotine levels.”
“I’m trying to cut back,” Venkataraman said, as he lit another cigarette. “What about the autopsies?”
“The same. It’s easy enough to tell what organ failure killed these people, but not what caused the disease process. Some victims had lesions in the brain. Others in the heart, lungs, liver, etc. No pattern. Very strange. We are sending off some tissue samples to Atlan
ta. The C.D.C. has more powerful instruments. Hopefully, they can find something. You know, maybe it’s not a virus. Was it Mad Cow Disease that is caused by a protein?”
Venkataraman was always impressed by how agile the old man’s mind remained. Bovine spongiform encephalopathy was a degenerative disease that affects the central nervous system of adult cattle and has been transmitted to humans who ate infected meat.
“Yes. It’s caused by an abnormal version of a protein normally found on cell surfaces called a prion. The damaged prion destroys the brain and spinal cord. But I hardly think cows would be a vector in India, especially here. The people consider them sacred and do not eat them.”
“Pity. I like a good steak. They don’t know what they are missing. But perhaps it is something similar in another food.”
“If it is a prion, the C.D.C. may be able to isolate it.”
A goat trotted over to Venkataraman. He watched in amazement as it bent its head and started eating the accumulated cigarette butts at his feet, filters and all.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“So, what should I tell New Delhi in the meantime,” Bhargavahis asked.
“Pray.”
My poor India,” the old doctor said. “When will she stop suffering?”
“Perhaps, it will not be too bad this time,” Venkataraman said, trying to cheer his mentor up.
He closed his cell phone. The goat was looking at him, chewing the last cigarette butt, the tip of which was sticking out its mouth.
“What? You want a light?”
Venkataraman stood up and the animal cantered away. I’ve got to get some rest, he thought. I’m talking to goats. He was suddenly ravenous and started walking to the mess tent for some coffee and a balushahi, the Indian pastry made with maida flour, deep-fried in clarified butter, then dipped in sugar syrup. Some doctor, I am. Two packs a day and balushahis. I’ll probably be dead before some of my patients.
He felt a drop of rain and returned to his “smoking box” to move it inside the tent to keep it dry for his next break.
The exhausted physician barely registered the inscription stamped on the side of the box:
THIRD WORLD RELIEF ORGANIZATION
PROTEIN BARS
PRODUCT OF THE USA
DONATED BY THE BVM CORPORATION
CHAPTER 9 - ARMED AND DANGEROUS
The next morning Scarne spoke to Winston Todd. The lawyer told him that after her husband’s death Kate Vallance sold her house in Boone City and moved into an apartment the couple owned in Chicago.
“Bryan spent a lot of time in Chicago,” Todd explained. “He was a fixture at the CME Group, which is the name of the new commodities and futures company created when the Chicago Board of trade and the Chicago Mercantile Exchange merged in 2007. The BVM Corporation trades millions of futures and option contracts every day to protect itself from swings in commodity prices. Bryan was considered something of a wunderkind for his ability to spot potential price fluctuations. I’ll ring Mrs. Vallance and set up a meeting for you.”
Scarne then called Nigel Blue, the chief of staff at Shields Inc., the media conglomerate.
“I need a favor.”
He explained what he wanted.
“You spend so much time pretending to be one of our writers I could put you on salary,” Blue said.
Scarne had recently assumed the identity of a book reviewer on a case involving a publisher owned by Shields.
“Can I get medical?”
“We couldn’t afford to put you on our plan. You’re always getting shot or stabbed. Come by around 5. I’ll have something for you.”
Todd called back a half hour later.
“Kate wants you to go to her apartment.” He rattled off an address. “She suggested noon tomorrow, for lunch. Can you do that?”
Scarne said he could.
“Fine. I’ll call her to confirm. Best of luck.”
The rest of the morning was spent with Evelyn on paperwork and some preliminary travel arrangements. After that, a working lunch in the office was followed by an afternoon devoted to bringing Noah up to speed on some assignments he’d have to handle by himself in Scarne’s absence, which would be lengthy.
“Let me get this straight,” Sealth said at one point, holding up a file, “while you gallivant around the country working off a $100,000 line of credit, I sit in a hotel lobby trying to catch some hedge fund slime ball from Mamaroneck, wherever the hell that is, bonking a woman not his wife.”
“It’s in Westchester,” Scarne said. “And I’ll have you know I rarely gallivant. Take your Kindle. I never go on a stakeout without one. I read a lot of books just sitting around.”
“I don’t have a Kindle.”
“Just put a Kindle app on your iPad.”
Because of his last case, Scarne considered himself something of an expert on electronic publishing. Both Noah and Evelyn were getting throughly sick of his frequent suggestions on how they could improve their reading experiences. He handed Sealth another file.
“Now, here’s an interesting one.”
Sealth opened it.
“A fucking kidnapped poodle?”
“Fifi, to be exact. Mrs. DuPont thinks one of her ex-husbands snatched it, but she doesn’t know which one.”
“How many are there?”
“Five. That’s what makes the case so challenging. Fortunately, all the exes live in the Tristate area, so you won’t have to gallivant too far.”
Scarne was enjoying himself.
“The pinnacle of my career,” Sealth muttered.
“If the dognapper hasn’t already put Fifi in the microwave, see if you can get her back in one piece. Mrs. duPont is worth $60 million.”
***
Scarne had to decide what gun to take with him on what was shaping up to be an extensive trip. He never considered not taking a weapon, even on a case that might turn out to be a wild-goose chase. Sometimes, he knew, the geese shoot back.
Recently, he’d been carrying a Hechler-Koch and had grown quite fond of the powerful automatic. He had become so proficient with it that the N.Y.P.D. cops and F.B.I. agents who used the secret gun range in the basement of an old Borders bookstore on 21st Street and Sixth Avenue in Manhattan had become wary of his invitations for a friendly shoot-off. They didn’t begrudge Scarne’s privileged access to the Flatiron District facility; he was, after all, something of a pal of the Police Commissioner. They also didn’t really mind the $20 he invariably took from them; he was a good sport who usually then bought breakfast, lunch or some drinks, spending much more than the money he won. But all of them considered themselves crack shots — they wouldn’t be at Dick Condon’s “private” shooting gallery if they weren’t — but the son of a bitch could shoot the balls off a fruit fly. Their groupings were tight; Scarne’s were microscopically bunched.
For no reason he could explain, he now went to the glass-fronted lawyer’s bookcase that had been his grandfather’s. Above it was a John Noble lithograph Dudley Mack had given him, saying “the man who owned it won’t be needing it anymore.” Entitled Ah! Linoleumville, it portrayed men in the 1890’s working on a wooden barque sitting in dry dock between an old Staten Island ferry and another tall ship that appeared to be a Yankee Clipper. Now called Travis, Linoleumville was on the northern shoreline of Staten Island on Fresh Kills. Despite its dubious provenance, the valuable lithograph was a favorite of Scarne’s. One of the famous maritime artist’s best works, the lithograph went well with the room’s nautical motif. Evelyn was frequently after Scarne to come up with a new decorating style but he had so far held his ground.
Scarne’s love of the sea came naturally. He now carefully moved the silver frame that held the photo of his grandfather, Capitano di vascello Giacomo Scarne, and lifted the Noble lithograph away. He opened the small safe that had been hidden and removed a locked metal case resting atop a note. The case was a recent addition
. Scarne, who loved any new technology, pressed his right index finger against a small translucent pad on the top of the box and was rewarded with a muted click as the lock disengaged. He smiled. It always worked, but it also always surprised him that it did.
He took out the the blue-black Bersa Thunder and hefted it, as always impressed by its light weight and balance. Only 23 ounces, the Argentine automatic closely resembled the German Walther on which it was modeled, both in appearance and in performance. In some respects the .380 Bersa was a superior weapon. The Argentinians had engineered the Bersa so that its blowback action did not occasionally nick a shooter’s hand on recoil.
The Bersa had married well with a Brugger & Hock silencer that was long gone, probably rusting in a mangrove swamp in the Florida Keys, where Scarne had last used the gun during the Ballantrae affair. The only reason Scarne had the Bersa was that it had been sent to him, as a gesture of respect, by Andriy Boyko, the Ukrainian mobster who took it from his hand that night in the Keys and decided to let him live.
Scarne reached in the safe and took out the note that had come with the Bersa in an unmarked package. He smiled grimly as he read it:
“You have the balls of a Ukrainian. A firearm without serial numbers may be valuable to you. It is only a piece of metal. It has no memory. Nor should you. I would advise you to use it soon. But if you and I should meet again, let us try not to kill each other.”
There was no signature, just the letter “B”.
Scarne had not fired the weapon in anger since. He’d brought it to an underground gun dealer in Chinatown who owed him a favor for scaring away some juvenile Tong thugs trying to extort him. The dealer arranged to have a phony serial number stamped on the Bersa.
“Happy to oblige,” the man said. “Number belong to pistol in shipment from Virginia hijacked by Tong. Police have the number. You shoot someone and they find this one, Tongs have some splainin’ to do, Lucy. What can they do? Produce the real pistol? Break my heart.”
THE VIRON CONSPIRACY (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS #4) Page 6
